


Wake Me (From This Crimson Slumber)

by Amonae



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, everyone needs a damn hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 13:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11624556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amonae/pseuds/Amonae
Summary: Bucky wakes up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, his head aching and stomach roiling with the thought of what he might have done. What he doesn’t expect, is the identity of his rescuer or the trials that await them before (and after) they get home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dapperanachronism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperanachronism/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, dapperanachronism! <3 You are a wonderful human who has graced me with your presence for another lovely year. Here’s to another several! 
> 
> So this is a two-year, two-parter. My bad! However, now it can be posted in full, so hopefully you enjoy~
> 
> Thank you so much to robintcj for helping to be a second pair of eyes on this thing. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Everything hurt.

Hurt was probably the wrong word for it. Stiff was more accurate, his muscles tensing and pulling against his every movement as though they were revolting. He took quick stock of any injuries—his left arm seemed completely immobile and his right appeared to be cuffed against something solid, maybe a radiator?—before opening his eyes barely a half-millimetre. 

Yeah, that was a fucking mistake.

He snapped his eyes shut again, too late, head pounding as if someone had vigorously scrubbed his brain against the fine-edged side of a cheese grater. It would stop after a while, it always did, but at least he understood why everything from the last few weeks seemed a little fuzzy around the edges. 

That god damned coding, still hard-wired into the furrows of his skull, so deep it seemed like it would always be a part of him, always be waiting until someone else was right there, spewing some random Russian in his face and turning him back into a mindless drone. He was so fucking sick of it all. 

He tried opening his eyes again, bracing himself against the onslaught of agony that even the dim light would force upon him. This time, he managed to keep them cracked just enough to get his bearings. A room, barely bigger than his smallest apartment on the run, and probably some kind of a living space if the beat-up couch covered in scraggly blankets was any indication. There was a fireplace, embers still glowing orange and red with heat, so someone else had to be here. He couldn’t exactly see how he could have managed a fire, not with only one good arm, and said arm currently keeping him chained in place.

That’s when the pile of blankets shifted, drawing his attention back toward them in an instant. Whoever it was murmured a quiet complaint before sitting up, the threadbare coverings drifting away to reveal a sleep-rumpled button down, sharp shoulders, and a trim waist. He was just cataloguing the familiar sweep of those shoulders and the ruffled waves of dark hair when the man turned, just a quick glance. It wasn’t lost on Bucky how quickly his expression flipped from sleepy ease to tense caution. 

“You’re up.”

“Stark?” he murmured, unhappy with the raspy tone of his voice. When had he last had something to drink? To eat?

Stark’s face did a complicated twist, his brows furrowing downward in confusion while his mouth slanted in a grimace. It took him a few moments to speak, as though he were piecing together his words with care. “Barnes, you with me in there?”

“Yeah, I”—Stark turned to face him, exposing a filthy sling keeping his right arm wrapped tight against his chest—“what happened to your arm?”

Another complex set of facial expressions that Bucky couldn’t hope to parse filtered across the man’s face. The longer Stark went without answering, the more pronounced the sinking feeling in Bucky’s gut grew. When the other finally spoke, it was simply to announce he was going to get some water before he all but fled from the room. 

Fuck.

If that wasn’t a red flag waving right in front of his face, Bucky didn’t know what it was. Stark had never been skittish around him, not since those first few weeks when Bucky still had a hard time pulling reality from the past. It was only a month ago that the mechanic had been clamoring in his personal space for a chance to fiddle with his prosthetic arm. At least, he was pretty sure it was a month ago. He was beginning to get the feeling that he had been AWOL for much longer than he initially expected. 

Stark returned, a dingy glass of water clutched in his left hand. He kept a few paces back and Bucky could almost see the gears turning as he worked through his options. Eventually, Stark cleared his throat to speak. “I’m going to help you drink this, okay? Try not to, I don’t know, headbutt me or anything. Alright?”

Bucky frowned but nodded briefly. He was sure that anything he had to say wouldn’t help alleviate the strain of the situation. Stark approached, slowly, and paused between each movement. Eventually he managed to press the edge of the glass to Bucky’s lips, tilting it gingerly. It was warm and half of it dribbled down his chin to create a wet patch on his shirt, but Bucky didn’t care. He already felt more alert.

There were a series of questions pressing against the edge of his pounding skull—where were they? Where was the rest of the team? And what happened to Stark’s arm? Bucky kept his head hanging low, letting the curtain of his hair block out some of the offending light, counting the seconds of silence between each breath.

“How much do you remember?” Stark’s voice was quiet, almost lost under a crackle from the fireplace. 

“Not much,” he answered, furrowing his brow as he thought back on the bits and pieces he could put together. A multitude of cities, faces of people he didn’t know. Blood on his hands, in his hair, smeared across the barrel of a rifle. Red seeping and staining the edges of his memories. Bucky swallowed, hard. There were bits missing, there always were, but he had the feeling that part of that was important. That it was vital there were parts missing, like he’d blocked them out intentionally, even if it didn’t work that way. If it did, he would have blocked out more, clamped down on everything he’d been forced to witness, forced to cause. He ran his tongue along the edge of his lip. It was dry, close to splitting. Bucky lifted his head, ignoring the searing burst of pain behind his retinas. “I remember Iron Man. Fighting him. I…” he paused again, getting his bearings among the jumble of thoughts and memories. “I did that to you, didn’t I?”

Stark stayed silent, but that said more than enough. 

Bucky changed tactics. “Where are we?”

“Safehouse, kind of. Used to be a Stark property years ago, guess it probably still is. Never got around to selling it.”

Since the mechanic still wouldn’t meet his eyes, Bucky took the time to look around and take stock of the small room once again. Yeah, he could see how it had probably been a decent place at one point, lavish even, but the years of disuse (and probably squatters) hadn’t been kind to it. The wallpaper was peeling back from the walls and there were places where the floorboards looked like they were moments from rotting straight through. He cleared his throat, ignoring the pang of hunger that rumbled through his body. “And what happened to,” he motioned with his chin to his left arm, a useless chunk of metal dangling from his shoulder. 

Stark looked up, his gaze catching Bucky’s for the length of time it took him to say, “I disabled it.”

Oh. 

Well that explained a hell of a lot more than Bucky needed to know.

Stark disabled the arm because it was a threat, a threat against _him_.

He was _defending_ himself.

_Fuck._

\---

Stark came back at periodic intervals with water or tin cans of room-temperature food, helping Bucky as best he could with a single functioning arm. Bucky didn’t suggest being uncuffed from the radiator—he probably deserved to be right where he was. When the mechanic wasn’t supplying Bucky with sustenance or slumbering under the stack of tattered blankets, he was in another room, out of sight even though Bucky could hear him scraping around and cursing under his breath. No one else had come for them, not Steve or any of the others, and Bucky knew that could only mean one thing.

They were cut off. No contact with the outside world. In a cabin with a limited supply of food and both of them down an arm.

It wasn’t a good fucking sign.

The fact that the others hadn’t come yet, hadn’t discovered Stark’s absence, meant that they either had bigger problems at home—which was likely, New York seemed to have become a hotspot for any number of attacks—or they didn’t know that Stark had gone off in the first place.

Bucky thought the second option sounded like as good a guess as any. 

But Steve would notice, he was always more aware of things like that than anyone else, the little changes in someone’s demeanor that meant so much more than they were saying. Bucky had gotten better at picking up the clues, especially since his time as the Winter Soldier, but Steve would always be better at it. He understood people in a way that Bucky, by nature, did not. 

Though there was no overlooking the fact that Stark was all but fucking terrified of him. The man slept in fits and bursts, keeping himself out of the room as much as possible, tinkering away with whatever he was messing with in the adjoining room. Bucky assumed it was the kitchen, since the cabin didn’t seem big enough to boast too many offshoots from the main living space. And since Stark had been sleeping on the couch, that either meant that the bed was completely unsuitable for sleep or that the bedroom itself was somehow inaccessible. 

Bucky wriggled his hand where it was locked against the metal piping of the radiator. The cuff didn’t budge an inch. It wasn’t something commercially available, he knew that, which meant it was probably one of Stark’s and that he wasn’t going to be able to snap through it as easily as he may have otherwise. Not that it would help his situation even if he did. He tilted his head back against the loops of metal and listened to the scrape and scuffle of the mechanic in the distance. 

He only hoped that whatever Stark was jerry-rigging together out there would be done soon, if only so the man would stop watching Bucky with caution every time he entered the room. 

\---

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, since he woke with a start and a crick in his neck where he’d been leaning back against the hard edge of the radiator. There was a squawk at his left side, the sound of something metal hitting the wooden floor. “Stark?” Bucky muttered, prying open his eyes and watching the other shuffle around to retrieve the screwdriver he had flung aside.

“I’m going to fix this arm,” Stark started, not meeting Bucky’s gaze, focused instead on the open panels that protruded from the prosthetic, “and then I need you to go find something we can use to make a radio, to call the others. There’s nothing here I can use, believe me, I’ve tried. And we’re running out of options.”

Bucky heard all the things that weren’t said: _I don’t trust you but I need you. We’re running out of time. I’m **afraid.**_

He swallowed down the unnecessary questions. “Okay. What am I looking for?”

“Anything that broadcasts a signal—cell phones, radios, computers, hell I’d take a fucking car starter at this point.”

Bucky watched him fumble the screwdriver, saw the tight wince of pain that raced through Stark’s whole frame in an instant. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the injured limb, but he was betting that it wasn’t set right, that it was going to get worse long before it got better. He nodded, short and quick, before Stark rambled on again.

“And food. Maybe some bedding or something, since this place gets cold as hell at night. Won’t be long once I get my hands on some equipment that actually works, though,” Stark started to trail off, his words growing quiet as he focused on his work, on the twists of wire protruding from Bucky’s metal arm. As he leaned over, prying off another panel with the screwdriver, Bucky could see the swoop of his collar bone beneath the layers of his shirts. His olive skin was filthy, smeared with blood and dirt. Bucky found himself wondering just how long he’d been unconscious. His mind was filtering through their options, gaze focused on the yellow-gray edge of Stark’s A-shirt, when he saw it. There, tucked under the tight layer of Stark’s undershirt, he could just make out the dingy red corner of a leather-bound book, faded with age.

Bucky felt the coil of unease in his chest tighten along with the fingers of his flesh hand. 

“There, done. I, uh, I’m going to deactivate that cuff now, okay?” Stark stepped back, the shade of crimson going with him, and fumbled with a keycard from his pocket. The locking mechanism surrounding his wrist clicked and shuddered, Bucky pulling his good arm free before flexing the fingers of his metal hand experimentally. Stark kept talking, though he had retreated to the far side of the room as he spoke. “—packed you a bag. It’s sitting by the door. Uh, don’t get eaten by wolves?”

The man was rambling, that much was obvious. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to say anything reassuring, not with the sight of that book still burned into the back of his mind. Part of him could hear the words without trying, voices of a thousand strangers whispering to him through the silence. He clenched his hands by his sides, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

With a sharp nod, Bucky moved to retrieve the aforementioned bag, a musty old backpack that had definitely seen better days. He didn’t speak, didn’t trust that the wavering in his chest wouldn’t translate into his voice. For a moment, his hand hesitated on the doorknob. He could sense Stark hovering around behind him, still talking, babbling on about the kind of things that would be useful and the sort of stuff he should avoid, as though Bucky hadn’t just come back from God knows how many weeks of solo survival. As though he weren’t a humanized weapon. He stepped out the door without a single word, barely catching the words that Stark murmured to his back.

“Stay safe.”

\---

The cabin, since it was too tiny to qualify as a house, was nestled among a dense forest, spruce and evergreen brushing against Bucky’s limbs with every forward motion. He had seen the peaks of mountains in the distance and against them, just a speck on the horizon, was the flat tin roof of a lookout. Bucky only hoped it was still well-stocked, and preferably devoid of anyone who might cause trouble. 

His mind was still reeling from the sight of the book. He may not have seen the whole thing, didn’t glance upon the dark silhouette of a star on its cover, but he knew what it was. Knew what it could do. 

And now Stark had it.

That didn’t bode well for either of them, Bucky still feeling the tight curl of unease beneath his skin. The bubbling feeling that told him to run, to get as far away as possible, to escape. He could, really. Turn his back on this whole mess with Stark and just keep walking. If there were supplies in the lookout those would last him through another few days, which would give him enough time to get to some sort of a settlement where he could blend back into the crowd and disappear. 

And Stark… Well, Stark probably wouldn’t make it past the end of the week. 

_Fuck._

He didn’t harbor any malcontent for the man—distrust, yes—so he couldn’t justify leaving him on his own to a slow and torturous end. No matter how much that fucking book might haunt his thoughts for the next few days. So Bucky clenched his jaw and soldiered on. 

It was muggy among the underbrush, the heat of the day getting trapped between the boughs. Though he had plenty of water, the supply of food he had been sent off with was surprisingly sparse. How much had been left back at the cabin, if this was all that came with Bucky? Did Stark even bother to keep food for himself? Bucky heard enough grousing from Steve and Pepper about the mechanic’s poor eating habits, often skipping several meals at a time before re-surfacing from his workshop. He wouldn’t put it past the man to send most, if not all, of the food away with Bucky instead of keeping enough for himself. Considering the trek to the lookout would take at least a day and a half, more so if he stopped for the nights, the lack of a proper stock of food was concerning. He couldn’t help the flash of worry he felt, quickly pushing the emotion aside. It wouldn’t help him, not out here, to be worrying about Stark. The man could take care of himself, for the time being.

However, Bucky made a mental note to keep an eye out for small game trails, make some snares he could check on the way back. At least that way they wouldn’t starve before someone came to pick them up. 

He settled down on the first night in front of a small fire pit, heating a can of beans in the embers. Prodding at the bright glow of coals, he frowned and tried to piece together more of his last few weeks. Stark had the book, but that could mean anything. Bucky was fairly certain that the blood on his hands hadn’t been instigated by Stark, so that meant the mechanic had taken it from whoever had control of Bucky before.

He hoped that the bastard, whoever it was, was dead. 

It didn’t seem logical for Stark to use the words just to get him to the safehouse, especially with how fearful the man had seemed. Not to mention the confinement. And where the hell was the Iron Man armor? Bucky distinctly remembered that fight, and he was sure that it had been recent enough, since it explained how Stark was able to take him down and get him the hell out of the third party’s grasp. So if he’d used the armor to come sweeping in to save Bucky’s sorry ass, where had it wound up? And where had the rest of the Avengers been? Why was Stark out solo?

Not that Stark could pilot the thing with one damn arm, but as far as Bucky knew, he would have probably tried it anyway.

Once he was scraping the sides of the tin clean with the flat of his finger, he could feel the edge of tension that had been running through his frame quiver and shake. Stark hadn’t been the one controlling him before, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t, if he felt it was necessary.

Or maybe just to see if he could. An experiment.

Bucky shoved the empty tin back into his ratty bag and slung the one good strap over his shoulder, kicking dirt over the embers before trekking back out into the dark thicket of trees. He kept his mind on the heavy sound of his footsteps and the nightsong whispered through the canopy, on the direction of his path through the forest. 

If he kept a good pace, he could reach the lookout by mid-morning.

\---

He stared up the rusty ladder, right hand shielding his eyes from the quickly-rising sun. Bucky had arrived much earlier than he expected, his feet carrying him with a speed brought on by fear, moving him further and further from the cabin at a quick clip. He gave the ladder a rough shake, watching the shower of reddish-brown flakes drift down its length. It would probably hold.

Making sure that the backpack was tied as securely as it could be around his chest, he started the climb. These towers were tall, designed to keep above the treeline and give a person an unobscured view of the entire forest. Being on fire watch was a dreary task, but half the time it was the only thing keeping a blaze from raging out of control. If this tower was still stocked, it should have a radio, which would give Stark more than enough to work with. If they were lucky, there would be a first aid kit and some sort of rations as well. 

Bucky pulled himself up the last few steps, wiping the grimy dust from his palms onto his thighs. It left twin trails of orange-red over the dark material. As he expected, after seeing the state of the ladder, there was no one else on the platform, just a tiny room with a locked door. He kicked it in, covering his mouth to protect against the cloud of dirt that swept up from the ground. 

He filtered through the room, lifting books and magazines and digging through drawers and cabinets alike. It looked as though no one had been here since the late eighties, magazine covers with spandex and scrunchies, faded with age. Bucky managed to find a few packets of dehydrated meat, though they had long since expired. He shoved them into the backpack anyway—they would do in a pinch. 

The radio was sitting right where he expected it to be, on the center of the main desk, outlooking the eastern ridge of trees. Bucky flipped the switch. Tried it again. Of course it was too much to ask that it work on the first try. He peered beneath the desk and glowered at the chewed-up cord. Fucking rats.

Pulling the radio and all its assembled bits off the tabletop, Bucky jammed it somewhere between the food and water. He managed to find a second bag, an oversized duffle, that he filled with a sleeping bag, three flares, two bottles of lighter fluid, a series of assorted magazines and paperbacks, and the large first aid kit off the wall. After he was satisfied that he’d cleaned out anything of value, Bucky shouldered both bags and made his way back down the ladder which creaked beneath each placement of his boots. The sun was already rising toward its peak, cutting down through the sparse growth of trees around the base of the tower and creating a mire of heat. He hurried into the thicker concentration of pine, letting his footsteps fall at twice the pace he’d started with. 

The first aid kit had three small vials of antibiotics, more than enough for something minor, but Bucky knew how fast infection could spread, knew how fast it could spiral out of control. And Stark had been looking pretty green around the gills when he’d left. 

\---

Bucky returned to the cabin with two rabbits hanging from his belt and a small bundle of tubers that he had the distinct feeling were edible. At least they could make a stew, something that would last them a few days if they were cautious about how much they ate. By that time, Bucky had no doubt that Stark would have finagled together something viable from the bits of broken radio and help would be on its way. It would be fine.

The main room was silent, which was to be expected. Bucky had walked straight through half the night to get back as soon as he could, despite the churning in his gut. The presence of the book still weighed heavily in his mind, a threat ever-encroaching upon his consciousness. 

Stark was sleeping beneath the stack of blankets, unmoving. Bucky let him be, figuring he needed a decent sleep after the smattering of naps he’d caught while Bucky had been awake. By the time he cleaned the rabbits on the back porch and managed to locate and clean a large, cast-iron pot, he expected Stark to be up. He hadn’t exactly been quiet about his rifling through the kitchen. 

There was no movement from the nest of blankets on the couch.

Bucky frowned, stepping closer with furrowed brows. That’s when the smell hit him. Sickly-sweet and sour at the same time, mildew and rust and everything in between, all covered with the hard odor of sweat. Bucky felt his stomach turn.

“Stark?” he tried as he approached, not wanting to startle the man. 

A quiet grunt greeted him. Well, better than nothing. He risked hovering at the edge of the couch, just past the arm that Stark’s feet were propped up against. Bucky swallowed down whatever fear was holding him back, stifling it beneath a blank mask, before moving to where Stark’s head was still mostly buried under a musty afghan. 

“Stark,” he spoke louder but received no answer. With a sigh, Bucky crouched by the edge of the couch. “Tony. I need to look at your arm.”

Dark eyes peered over the edge of the floral-patterned pile of fabric, brows dipping down. “S’fine.”

Bucky frowned. He could see the thin sheen of sweat over Stark’s brow, the unfocused haze drifting about the edge of his gaze. “It’s infected. Let me look, okay? I brought back a first aid kit, at least let me change the bandage.”

There was a quiet murmur of what could be an argument but then Stark was jutting his arm out from beneath the covers, as far as he could without dislodging the majority of the blankets. Bucky heaved another sigh and folded back the edge of them, exposing the filthy bandage. Blood had stained through in at least two spots and Stark’s skin felt hot to touch when Bucky started to unwind the layers of cotton. He froze when he let the last layer of cloth drop away.

“That bad, huh?” Stark wasn’t looking at him, his gaze off and unfocused, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. It must hurt like hell, if it was half as bad as it looked. His arm wasn’t so much broken as mangled, breaks in the skin covered in blood new and dried, mottled patterns of dark purple bruises mingling against what was visible of his skin. Bucky sucked in a breath through his teeth before moving in a hurry to fetch the first aid kit. 

Stark must have lost consciousness during his short walk to where he’d left the duffle by the front door, because his eyes were shut again when Bucky returned to his side. If he was drifting this bad, the infection was already hitting his bloodstream hard, probably wreaking havoc on his immune system. Bucky took advantage of the other’s unconscious state, quickly feeling out the fractures in the bone with as gentle a touch as he could manage before slathering the whole thing in antibacterial cream and wrapping it with a fresh bandage. The entire time, the only resistance he got were the quiet complaints quivering between Stark’s lips. 

“Tony?” he tried, having better luck with the man’s first name garnering a response in his current state. Sure enough, the mechanic opened his eyes just a slit. Bucky tried a smile, even though it felt out of place on his lips. “I need to do an injection. Antibiotics.” Bucky held up the vial and syringe to demonstrate. “Try not to headbutt me, okay?”

That got him a wheezing laugh as Stark turned his face away into the couch cushions, stifling the coughs Bucky could see shuddering through his frame. With a frown, Bucky popped the cap on the syringe, pushing down the plunger before breaking the seal on the vial with the tip. He pulled back on the plunger, peering at the dose lines until he was satisfied, before lifting it to the dim light. Quickly tapping the edge and ridding the surface of air bubbles, he paused to lay his hand against the inside of Stark’s elbow on his good arm. It earned him a flinch, but Bucky tried not to let it get to him. “Ready?”

He waited for the miniscule nod before tapping the tender skin and raising the blood vessels to the surface. Bucky knew that wasn’t necessary, he knew where to stick someone with a needle by now, but it was more of a warning for Stark than anything. The man didn’t make a single noise of complaint, however, when Bucky depressed the plunger and watched the swirl of antibiotic disappear. 

Bucky stood, ready to get rid of the syringe and old bandages, but a hand wrapped quick and tight around his metal wrist, knuckles standing pale white against olive-hued skin. 

“Don’t go,” Tony hissed, voice hard at the edges but wavering with something that might have been more than his weakened state. 

“You need to eat something.”

“Don’t go,” the mechanic repeated, his gaze leaving no room for argument.

With a heavy breath and a quick shake of his head, Bucky settled onto the floor by the couch, letting Tony cling to to cool metal of his prosthetic arm. It wasn’t long before the man’s breath evened out into something calmer and Bucky could pry his limb from Tony’s lax grip. 

At least he didn’t seem to be afraid anymore, but that could just be the delirium at work. Whatever it was, Bucky would take it over the flinching.

Though, he was starting to miss that Stark sass.

\---

The stew turned out alright, considering the ingredients Bucky had to work with were less than ideal, but it was hearty and filling and something that would hopefully help the antibiotics along in clearing the infection from Tony’s body. He was still sleeping when Bucky returned to the living room, so he settled the bowl on the floor and swept his palm across a sweaty forehead. Still warm, but not as badly burning as before. Probably a good sign. Bucky didn’t dare waste any of the clean bandages they had left as a cold compress, he wasn’t even sure he could get the water to run less than lukewarm. 

For the first time, he wondered why the hell the water was still running in a place so obviously abandoned, the power too. Was Tony so careless with his countless properties that he let things like this slip through the cracks? Would he even notice monthly withdrawals to keep places functioning that he never went to? Bucky frowned. No, probably not. For all the money he had, that didn’t seem to be important to Tony, not from the way he threw it around. Bucky hadn’t been in the tower two weeks before he’d gotten a major uniform upgrade and half a dozen upper-level weapon improvements. 

Bucky had gone to return them—he never did like to get things he didn’t feel he’d earned—but Steve had warned him off it within seconds. Told him Tony liked to dote on people, made him feel closer to the team, feel useful. 

It took all of Bucky’s willpower to avoid pointing out that without Tony Stark, without Iron Man, the Avengers would be a sorry scrap heap of haphazard heroes who might not have made it out of their first week, let alone events like the battle of New York. 

He got used to shutting his mouth real quick around the rest of the team.

While Tony slept, he had time to think, to muse on the whereabouts of their teammates. If they hadn’t accompanied Iron Man on this “mission,” whether it was a rescue or something else entirely, they would have been alerted by Friday that the armor went down or was abandoned or whatever the hell happened to it. But with no sign of help, Bucky had to assume that the armor was either ditched miles away from their current location or Tony had intentionally blocked tracking on his movements.

Why the hell would he pull that shit?

Unless…

Bucky frowned. Maybe the rest of the team didn’t _want_ him back. It wouldn’t be the first time, his behavior was sporadic at best and his past dogged at his heels no matter how damn hard he tried to leave it behind. It just seemed to keep coming back to haunt him, to stain his dreams with crimson and blur his version of events. Even with all of that, it was _Tony_ who found him. Not Steve. Steve, he would expect. That man was more stubborn than any damn ass Bucky had ever met, and he knew the man would follow him to the end of the line but…

Bucky frowned. If Tony had come after him, had found him… did he trust him? He must have, at one point. And then Bucky had hurt him, burned that bridge to the ground before it could even hold substantial traffic. 

“Mmphf…” Tony grumbled into the pillows, his eyes flickering beneath the lids. 

“Tony? You wanna get up and eat something?” Bucky tried, keeping his voice as soft and calm as he could manage, despite the pounding in his head and chest. If there had been trust there before, maybe he could win it back. Maybe he hadn’t lost something so fleeting and precious. Maybe he could earn his way toward being of some kind of worth to someone.

With a faint noise of complaint, the mechanic was pushing himself into an upright position, swaying slightly. Bucky grabbed the bowl he’d set aside, hovering at the edge of the couch as Tony blinked blearily around him, as though he’d already forgotten where he was. He stared at Bucky with such a glassy look it made him worry for the man all over again.

“Hey, you think you can eat?”

“...Yeah. Probably,” came the raspy reply, Tony moving to sit properly against the back of the couch, waving slightly with his good arm. Bucky gave him a hold on the bowl for all of two seconds before seeing how badly his arm shook from the slightest bit of weight. He knew Tony wasn’t weak, saw how he sparred out of the armor, knew how that man could throw someone to the boxing mat from first-hand experience, but this was different. 

So Bucky held the bowl and let Tony navigate the spoon to his lips, making no comment on how much of the stew sloshed back into the bowl or onto the stack of blankets. When he’d finished with the bowl and three glasses of water on top of it—Bucky had been sent running back to the rusty pipes in the kitchen several times over the course of the meal—the mechanic seemed a lot more like himself, though he was still heated to touch the few times Bucky managed to brush his flesh hand against tanned skin. 

Tony coughed to clear his throat before scrubbing his good hand over his face. “Please tell me you found something more useful out there than a medical kit. Not that I’m not grateful, I am, we just need to find some way to contact the others.”

“Found a radio,” Bucky answered, getting up to retrieve the rest of his looted items and hauling it back over to the couch. “It’s busted, though. Some flares, a few maps of the area, a couple of rations…” he trailed off when he saw Tony making aggravated motions in the direction of the radio, trying to draw it closer to himself apparently with only his willpower. Bucky set the radio in his lap.

“I can fix it. I mean, it would be better if I had two hands but, well…” he motioned uselessly to his arm and Bucky could see the frustration behind the simple movement. It would take them longer, if Tony was working with only one hand.

“Could you walk me through it?”

“What?” Tony glanced at him and Bucky swore it was the longest amount of eye contact the man had maintained since they found themselves in this small room. 

Bucky grunted and motioned to the tangled snare of metal and wires. “The radio. Could you walk me through fixing it? I’m no engineer, but,” he lifted his hands, “I’ve got two good hands and out of the two of us, I’m the one who’s not feverish.”

Tony made a face, whether out of reluctance to trust Bucky with the repairs or at the slight jab at his physical condition, Bucky wasn’t sure. But the mechanic tossed over the radio and motioned to the floor in front of the couch. “Start by prying off that back panel, see what kind of damage those damn rodents did. If a few of the wires are still intact, we should be able to rig something together. Hell, I can rip the wiring out of the walls here, if we really need to. Here,” Tony pulled a screwdriver from between the couch cushions and handed it over. Bucky tried not to think about how it may have been there for the sole purpose of self-defence.

Instead, he unscrewed the back panel and yanked it off, frowning at the mess of shredded wires that greeted him. “That doesn’t look good.”

“No, no. It’s fine,” Tony murmured, leaning over and sifting the fingers of his left hand through the mess. “See? These ones at the back are basically untouched. And the relays look fine too. Pull out the wires that are chewed and we’ll make do with what’s left. We don’t need it to receive, anyway. Just send.”

While Bucky worked his way through the mess, following Tony’s careful instructions, he found himself calming. Quick words and pointers were being whispered near his ear while Tony’s overheated frame settled against Bucky’s shoulders. They worked well as a team, Bucky’s mind picking up the information and analyzing it as quickly as Tony moved onto the next task, only a few moments cropping up where things needed to be explained or another tool needed to be retrieved from the kitchen. Every time Bucky returned to his spot in front of the couch, Tony plastered himself back along broad shoulders, seemingly unaware of how relaxed the whole thing felt.

It almost felt natural.

\---

The transmitter they ended up with was simple, something that could only send morse messages and receive nothing in return, but Tony insisted that it had enough distance on the transmission to reach the tower. Bucky found himself trusting the man, believing that if their message could reach HQ, that it could reach Steve, that they would be found. Things would be alright. But without knowing if their messages had been received, if anything was getting through to the outside world, time inside the cabin seemed to pass in a vortex.

And Tony was getting worse.

It was only a matter of time, after all, there had only been enough antibiotics in the medical kit for an emergency, meant to last until help arrived in a few days. Those few days came and went, and despite how much Bucky tried to spread out the medication, how often he changed the dressings on the wound, Tony’s fever came back. Bucky woke every few hours to adjust the compress—he’d sacrificed a stretch of bandage, one that didn’t look sterile, for it—and to send another message via the transmitter. He was starting to worry that he’d made a mistake, that the damn thing wasn’t sending after all, the quick taps disappearing into the distance, with no one on the other end. But Tony had walked him through it, had said it would work. So it would. It had to.

“Barnes…?” Tony’s voice filtered from the couch, weak and heady with the fever. Bucky abandoned the tail end of the message he’d been sending out, grabbing a glass of water and the last of the tinned food on his way. His own stomach growled when he pried the lid off the tin, but he refused to give it more than a cursory glance. 

Bucky crouched at the edge of the couch, setting the glass and food down before resting his hands gingerly on Tony’s shoulders. For the last few days, he hadn’t even hesitated before touching the mechanic—the man was too weak to flinch away from him now. “Hey, Tony. You hungry? You haven’t eaten since breakfast…”

“You eat it,” came the quiet reply, Tony rolling his head against the back of the couch as Bucky brought him to a seated position. “I’m not hungry.”

“You gotta eat,” Bucky frowned, lifting the tin and reaching for the spoon he’d left on the arm of the couch earlier that morning. “Keep up your strength.”

“S’no point.”

“Tony…”

“I said there’s no point!” Tony snarled with more vehemence than he should have been able to muster, his eyes burning with anger and fear as he snapped his gaze to Bucky’s. “I fucked up, okay? I fucked up and now we’re stuck out here and I couldn’t even manage to get a goddamned radio working so that they would know where we are and–”

“It’s not your fault.” Bucky’s voice at least cut Tony off, stopped him from rambling and using up the rest of his energy. He looked down at the can clutched in his metal hand, realizing how much attention it was taking not to crush the damn thing into a pulp. He set it down again before turning his attention back to Tony. Bucky found himself swallowing around the words pressing against his throat. “Why did you come for me?”

There was surprise plastered across Tony’s features, confusion slowly bubbling forward to mask it. “What do you mean? You’re an Avenger, of course we would come for you.”

“Not we,” Bucky insisted, “you. You came. Not the others. Why?”

“Barnes, now isn’t really the time to…” 

“Why!” Bucky snapped, feeling the edge of his resolve crumbling. “What did I do this time that would make the others stay away? How many people did I kill? Did I… was it someone we knew or… Fuck,” he hissed, tangling his fingers in the dirty mess of his hair. Bucky knew his heart was hammering in his chest, beating like the broken wings of a bird, erratic and panicked against his ribs. He couldn’t seem to take more than a gasping breath, his vision blurring in the periphery. 

Maybe he hadn’t just killed some civilian this time. Maybe there was a reason the others weren’t coming for him. That Steve wasn’t coming for him.

Bucky could barely hear the rush of blood in his ear drums through the throbbing between his temples. His hands were clutching so hard to the greasy strands of his hair he was sure that with one quick tug he could pull it all out. His body shuddered as a hand settled on his forearm, a warm palm pulling him from beneath the cold and ice. 

“Barnes? Hey, Bucky, c’mon. Come back.” There was a sense of panic in Tony’s voice, something Bucky hadn’t expected to hear, and he slowly drew his eyes back up to meet the mechanic’s. Tony smiled weakly. “There you go. Hey, don’t run away from me. You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Everyone’s still okay, I promise. I just… might have took off to find you on my own.” Tony looked away, the hint of a sheepish expression across his features. His hand was still resting against Bucky’s shoulder as he continued to speak. “So if it’s anyone’s fault that we’re stranded out here, it’s mine.”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn’t grasp the words. They could talk themselves in circles for hours about whose fault it was and how much regret they felt, but it wouldn’t get them anywhere. Instead, Bucky lowered his forehead to press against the stack of blankets piled high around Tony’s too-warm frame and didn’t say a damn word.

“It’s okay,” Tony murmured, his fingers weaving through Bucky’s hair where it had been tugged harshly only moments before. “They’ll find us.”

The sensation of gentle fingertips against his scalp was quickly lulling Bucky into a weary, half-dozing state. He could only vaguely hum his response, Tony’s slender digits never once losing their rhythm. 

“They always do.”

\---

He was making a habit of drifting off. The sound of footsteps outside the cabin snapped Bucky from his bleary state in an instant, his gaze immediately latching onto Tony’s frame, tense and alert against the back of the couch. They made eye contact, only long enough for Tony to give him a slight nod, before Bucky was slithering away from the other’s body heat and toward the door. On the way, he picked up the poker from beside the fireplace, just to have the threat of some sort of weapon on his side. 

There were three, no, four people milling about outside, all wearing what sounded like combat-grade boots. All except one. Those sounded like loafers, worn through to the sole and…

Bucky allowed his shoulders to drop, turning to offer Tony a weak smile before opening the door with a flat expression.

“It’s about damn time.”

The Avengers looked utterly unimpressed with his delivery, though that was to be expected. Steve was halfway between relieved and fondly exasperated, his mouth twisted into the curve of a grimace. Natasha had one perfect brow arched, her face belaying any other emotional state. And Clint had burst into a bark of laughter, likely from the sight of Bucky’s bedraggled face.

But Bruce was frowning. “Where’s Tony?”

Any amusement that may have been flickering through his features slid right off his face as Bucky frowned. “Inside. He’s in rough shape, banged up his arm real good. Probably at least some fractures, but I don’t think there’s a break. It’s not clean, and it ain’t pretty.” 

Bruce nodded, holding up the medical kit and allowing Bucky’s gaze to flick over it. After some of the tension had bled from his frame, a somewhat protective concern for Tony starting to ebb, Bucky moved away from the door and allowed Bruce to pass. He didn’t know when it had happened, but he was cautious with Tony, fiercely protective like he was with Steve, when he was just a little guy. He turned his attention back to the others, who were trying to involve him in conversation.

“You missed the best game, Barnes. The Mets were so close but blew it right in the last few innings.” Clint was grinning, waiting for the inevitable moment when both Bucky and Steve would wrinkle their noses in disdain. The Mets were no Dodgers. 

“You also missed Clint getting an arrow in the ass,” Natasha added dryly.

“It wasn’t like it was _my_ arrow.”

“Oh, yes. Silly me, that makes all the difference.”

Bucky was so wrapped up in his own thoughts and the sight of the ex-SHIELD agents bickering that he didn’t even notice Steve step up beside him until there was an arm wound tight around his shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “Good to have you back, Buck.”

“Good to be back,” he offered in return, though it sounded more like a question, even to him. Bucky glanced back at the cabin when he heard movement, ready in an instant to lend a hand should Tony need help back to the jet, but his concern was unwarranted. Tony had an arm loosely draped about Bruce’s shoulders as he took careful steps forward, his stereotypical, cocksure grin in place. 

“If I had known all I needed to get the good drugs out here was a confused super soldier and a shitty transmitter, I would have done this ages ago.” The grin on Tony’s features was forced, pushed through a layer of hazy pain, but no one said anything. Natasha silently took his other arm and between herself and Bruce, they led him off toward the treeline. Clint followed close behind, but Bucky hung back, Steve still at his side. They were quiet for a long while, but as always, Steve spoke up first.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Bucky frowned, his gaze still fixed where the others were loading Tony cautiously into the jet. He set his jaw, feeling the twist and stir of something beneath his ribs. “No.”

He was vaguely aware of Steve shrugging at his side, the rise and fall of broad shoulders before his friend withdrew his arm and stepped back. “Okay. Well, what do you say we get back to the tower? You definitely smell like you’ve been out in the wilderness for weeks.”

“Gee, thanks ya punk,” Bucky answered, his mouth quirking into a hint of a smile as he followed Steve back to the jet.

Steve waved over his shoulder. “Right back at you, jerk.”


	2. Chapter 2

For a few weeks after their return to the tower, it was a flurry of activity. There were the usual things, like Pepper harassing Tony about missed work the second he was healed enough to hold a screwdriver or the Avengers filtering in and out of the building as various alerts sent them sprawling across New York and the surrounding areas. And then there were others that were not quite so normal. Like the sessions with Bruce. Even though Bucky had personally requested them—tired of being controlled, of feeling like a stranger to his own mind—he was finding them more draining than helpful, most days.

“Relax. Focus your mind inward. Let everything else drift away but the sound of your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.”

The woman chanting away on the recording was starting to get on his nerves, Bucky could feel his teeth grinding in his jaw as he tried to focus, tried to get his mind to ‘clear’ or whatever bullshit they were aiming for today. Instead, all he could focus on was how uncomfortable these floor mats felt, how much he hated being barefoot. He wriggled his toes against the foam, felt his irritation grow as a lock of hair slipped from the confines of the elastic to slither down the back of his neck.

With an abruptness, the woman’s voice cut off part-way through a sentence, casting the room into silence. Bucky opened his eyes to find Bruce watching him, brow raised in question. “This isn’t helping, is it?”

“Good observation,” Bucky answered gruffly, unwinding his legs from their crossed position and stretching them out before himself. He was pretty sure his feet were well on their way to falling asleep. 

“Can I suggest something?” Bruce offered, still hovering around the portable stereo he had set up in the open space he used for meditation. 

Bucky lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Sure.”

“Talk to him,” Bruce’s tone was calm, but there was something pressing just beneath the surface. 

Bucky felt his hackles rise and he stood from the floor, half-asleep feet be damned. “I don’t need to. We were in a shit situation and we got each other out. End of story. Not like we have to be best buds afterward.”

A flash of contemplation crossed Bruce’s face and was gone just as quick. “No. But you both need to get whatever you are keeping bottled up out in the open. You want the nightmares to stop? Talk to Tony.”

A hard flinch arced through Bucky’s frame, his metal hand clenching into a fist at his side. He’d told Bruce about the nightmares when he’d first come seeking help—the images of Tony’s life draining away beneath Bucky’s hands that haunted him well into the daylight hours; Tony hovering over him with the damn book, whispering the words Bucky had hoped to never hear again—but he hadn’t expected the nightmares to be used against him. “Not going to happen, Banner,” Bucky snarled as he headed for the door, trying to calm the tension building up between his shoulder blades. 

“It might help,” Bruce offered, his voice cautious as Bucky stalked his way through the door and down the hallway. 

Bucky knew better—talking to Tony wouldn’t make the dreams go away, wouldn’t wipe the tinted edge of red from his memories. As far as he knew, Tony still had the book, still had that ability to control Bucky’s every thought and movement as though he were nothing more than a simple puppet. He didn’t know how to face Tony when there was a crimson cloud hovering just beneath the surface of it all. 

His feet took him to the gymnasium, where Natasha and Steve were already sparring, their bodies moving in a swift dance, dodging and ducking and darting. Bucky stood at the sidelines for a few moments until Steve noticed him, taking a split second to shoot a cocky grin over the expanse of the mats. Of course, this was the mistake Natasha was looking for, sweeping him to the ground with a single, swift movement. 

“You’re getting sloppy in your old age, Stevie,” Bucky teased, stepping over to the pair just as Steve was hauling himself off the floor. 

“Could still kick your ass any day of the week, punk.” Steve was grinning, broad and contagious enough that Bucky could feel his own lips quirk in a mockery of a smile.

Natasha was already walking away, calling back over her shoulder with a casual air that suggested she had no interest in their pissing match. “Have fun, boys. Don’t break anything or you’ll give Stark an aneurysm.” 

Steve chuffed out a laugh but Bucky felt his stomach churn at just the mention of Tony’s name. It only took a second for Steve to pick up on it, his expression settling to something serious. “You wanna talk?”

Bucky shook his head, quick. “Nah. I wanna kick your punk ass.”

“You can try,” Steve answered, pulling himself together and taking a fighting stance. 

Though it was difficult to move fluidly in the somewhat-flowy pants that he’d worn to his session with Bruce, Bucky quickly made up for it with shorter steps and closer-range tactics. He slid his feet along the mat, instead of lifting them, to avoid tramping on the wispy fabric, which was a tactic that threw Steve off his game enough for Bucky to land him, face-first, onto the mat within the first three minutes.

“Sloppy,” Bucky teased, feeling a grin tugging at his lips persistently as he kept Steve pinned to the mat with a knee between his shoulders. 

“Alright, alright. Let me up, would ya?” Steve grumbled, flexing in preparation to try and dump Bucky off his victorious perch. 

Bucky didn’t give him the chance, letting go and moving back in one swift motion, returning to a proper stance and lifting his arms, hands clenched in loose fists. “C’mon, Stevie. Stop messing around.”

“Yeah, right,” Steve answered, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck and stretching the muscle to one side before he shook out his limbs and resumed his own stance. “You’re going to get what’s coming to ya.”

“Bring it.”

They sparred until they were out of breath and flushed, clothes clinging with a thin layer of sweat that had taken the better part of two hours to work up. Bucky finally felt like he wasn’t about to crawl out of his own skin, his body warm and loose and calm, his mind a quiet hum of noise instead of a cacophony. He was leaning against the sideboards, scrubbing a towel against the slick mess of his hair, when he sensed someone else entering the gym. He froze up when he saw Tony, hovering in the doorway and looking more than a bit out of place in his suit jacket and slacks. He must have come from some kind of media event or charity dig, and Bucky couldn’t keep his gaze from flicking up, then down, and then up again. 

“Is Steve here?” Tony asked, breaking the quiet when it became clear that Bucky wasn’t about to say anything.

“Shower,” Bucky answered gruffly, jerking his head toward the showers. 

Tony nodded, too much, looking like a damned bobblehead after the second or third repetition. “Right. Sure. Can you get him to come see me? Workshop, probably. And, uh, can you swing by later? If you’re not busy.” 

Bucky’s brows knitted together in a tight furrow in the center of his brow. 

“Your arm,” Tony added, obviously sensing the thick tension in the air. “I want to check on it now that I have proper tools. I don’t know that I rigged everything back up the way it should be after… well, after.”

Bucky shifted the arm, feeling the twist and arc of the mechanical connections twitching all along his nerve endings. He frowned. “It’s fine.”

“I just want to make sure, okay?” Tony insisted, brow furrowing as he folded his arms across his chest. “Unless you have something better to do.”

With a flinch, Bucky frowned. Tony knew damn well he didn’t have anything better on his plate, but Bucky had hoped to continue avoiding Iron Man, at least until the crimson book wasn’t so present at the front of his mind. “Fine,” he answered instead, hands tensing at his sides. “I’ll send Steve when he’s done.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, sounding irate instead of grateful, the frown still marring his features as he turned and left the room.

Bucky heaved a sigh and scraped his right hand through his hair, tugging hard at the strands. ‘ _Get a grip, Barnes…_ ’

He didn’t know why he kept thinking about Tony, worrying consecutively about either hurting him or having him use the small, leather-bound volume as some form of control. He didn’t know why he was thinking about Tony at all. Except that he did, in part.

Bucky knew that he had the same over-protective feeling over Tony that he had for Steve when he was small. They’re the same, in some ways, pitching themselves head-first into danger without stopping to think about the consequences or outcome of their actions. But they’re different, in others.

For example, Bucky had never thought about what it might be like to kiss _Steve_. 

By the time Steve came out of the showers, Bucky was staring resolutely at his feet, fighting against the blush that was spiralling across his cheeks and threatening to overtake his features entirely. He barely heard Steve’s soft question over the pounding panic within his skull. 

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Stark wants to see you. Workshop.” He pulled the towel through his hair again, giving himself a momentary excuse to hide his face. “M’going to have a nap.”

“Buck?”

“I’m _fine_ , Steve.” It was mostly true, anyway.

\----

Bucky had been staring at his ceiling for about six and a quarter hours before Friday’s pleasantly-clipped tone came over the speaker system in his suite. 

“Sergeant Barnes, if you are not busy at present, Sir has requested you in the workshop.”

He debated ignoring the obvious request for his presence, debated rolling over and pretending to be asleep. It wouldn’t work, but he could try. Instead, Bucky forced himself to his feet with a soft noise of complaint, his hair falling in a tangled heap across his brow. He’d been worrying it while he lay there, apparently. “Yeah. I’m going.” 

Pulling on a clean tank top—there was no point in wearing something that covered his arm, if Tony was just going to be fiddling with it—Bucky headed to the elevator, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach as the lift descended. He had suspected there was an ulterior motive to Tony calling him down to the workshop, so he steeled himself against the possibilities. It wasn’t enough to prepare him for the sight of the damned book, sitting innocuously on the workbench closest to the elevator, black star standing bold against the faded red of the cover. 

Bucky froze, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, until Tony came from somewhere else in the shop, appearing quietly and too-calm. Bucky had always known the man to be a mad bundle of energy, hands illustrating his points and flicking through an argument. But now, Tony was mostly still, his arms crossed over his chest and a frown still etched across his face. 

“I assume you know what that is,” Tony started, when it became clear that Bucky wasn’t about to offer up any conversation. “Come, sit.” Tony’s arms uncrossed and motioned to a stool settled at the edge of the table, too-close to the damned book for Bucky’s liking. 

Bucky’s tongue darted out, licking lips that suddenly felt dry, and he spoke with a voice sounding hoarse and weak, “why do you have it?”

That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask. He’d meant to ask a number of things—why was it here? What was Tony going to do with it? Should he be afraid?

Bucky’s heart was thundering in his chest, unsure of himself in a way he rarely felt these days, not since the time in the cabin. He was wary, untrusting, and completely lost when it came to Tony’s motives. 

“I took it when I took out the guys who had you,” Tony answered, settling himself onto the stool when it became obvious that Bucky wasn’t going to take the offered seat. “I hung onto it because, well… I wasn’t sure if you were _you_. I didn’t want to use it, but I would have, if I had to.”

Bucky appreciated the honesty, but it did nothing for the panic washing over his limbs with each passing second. He opened his mouth to speak but found his tongue swollen and heavy in his throat. 

“I didn’t read it, if you’re wondering. I mean, I took a cursory glance to make sure that it was what I thought it was, but…” Tony looked at him, brows drawn in a serious line. “Barnes, I didn’t read the words. I won’t, not if you don’t want me to.”

That didn’t make sense, why would Bucky ever want someone else to know the words? To know how to control him, to take away his freedom like that? He started to piece together the logic right around the same time Tony started speaking again.

“But if they get you again, and they might—I don’t know how many of these things are out there—it might be better if–”

“Tony,” Bucky rasped, swallowing around the jagged feeling in his chest. “Do it.”

Tony blinked at him, obviously taken aback by the answer. “Me? Are you sure?” He motioned to the book and then back toward Bucky with jittery half-movements. “I was going to suggest Steve or–”

“No,” Bucky answered, shaking his head and taking a cautious step forward, fighting against another rising wave of panic. “It can’t be Steve. He… he wouldn’t do it, if it came down to it. It needs to be you. It has to be…” Bucky swallowed thickly. “I trust you.”

“Bucky,” Tony’s voice was a soft hiss, the room falling silent for the few moments it took for the information to settle. “Are you–”

“Memorize it and then destroy the damn thing,” Bucky insisted, before he lost the courage to say it. He lifted his gaze enough to meet Tony’s, seeing a jumble of emotions there that he hadn’t expected. Surprise. Concern. Trust. And a mix of something that looked suspiciously like hope.

“Right.” Tony nodded sharply and lifted the book, flipping through the pages slowly. “Give me a few minutes. If you stick around, we can toss this thing in the incinerator when we’re done?” He offered, a broad grin flickering across his lips.

Bucky jerked his head in a stilted bob, letting his limbs relax enough to release the clench of his fists. There was still a tight pain in the center of his chest, enough to keep him focused on the knobs of Tony’s spine as he hunched over the book, his eyes flicking across the pages as he read. Though he had expected to feel a rush of panic, a dart of fear at the idea that someone else would know the words, someone so close they could use them at any time… all he felt was a strange, flowing calm. 

Tony hadn’t used the book the entire time they’d been stuck in that cabin, even though he could have, even though he was afraid of Bucky more than half the time and feverish the rest.

There was also the safety aspect—if someone on the team knew the phrases that could trigger him, they could potentially stop Hydra from saying them, or turn the Winter Soldier back onto the side of the Avengers if things went haywire. Not that Bucky was particularly pleased about the idea of being tossed about like a lifeless puppet, but if need be, he knew Tony would do it. 

He hadn’t trusted anyone to have his back like this since Steve, the Steve from _before_ , who didn’t treat him like he was made of glass or filled with fragile fractures of emotion. Now, he wasn’t sure Steve could even take him out in a fight, if it came down to it. There had been too much hesitation on the helicarrier, too much caution, and it had nearly cost Steve his life.

Bucky couldn’t have that, couldn’t have Steve’s blood on his hands. He would never forgive himself. 

“Done.” Tony’s voice broke him from his reverie, forcing Bucky to tear his gaze away from the lines of a compact frame to a sly grin. “Let’s see how quickly this thing burns.”

They used the small forge at the back of the shop, the one that Tony claimed was for special occasions only, which led Bucky to wonder what its actual use was. It was odd, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the one person Bucky _knew_ could control him, and watch the pages of the book twist and curl with each lick of flame. There was a strange catharsis to it, a feeling that things may actually be all right.

So, naturally, that’s when everything went to shit.

\-----

Bucky was still on the bench, not that he was surprised by it. After disappearing for over a month—Steve had filled him in on everything he’d missed, all the time that had been stolen from him—he didn’t exactly expect the rest of the team to welcome him back with open arms. He hadn’t been cleared for field duty in the first place, and now, he wasn’t even close. 

It was grating on his nerves to watch the rest of the team go out, to watch them fight and put their lives on the line. He was able to share their comm links and video feeds through Friday, though Bucky found his attention more often-than-not drawn to Tony’s feed. Iron Man was too damn reckless, frequently coming back with bumps and bruises he hid from the rest of the team, but Bucky saw. He saw the exact second that Iron Man collided with the side of a building or twisted too quickly to avoid an enemy’s grasp, saw every way that Tony put himself at risk.

He was… worried.

Worried was the right word for it, he thought. That protective urge hadn’t gone away, hadn’t disappeared like he thought it would. Often, when the team got back from a mission, he had to pull back from the need to drag Tony to the side and ream him out for being such a damn idiot on the field. But it wasn’t his place. He and Tony weren’t close, despite the cabin and despite what Steve and Bruce were telling him. They weren’t, and probably would never be, close.

“Widow, two targets just circled the building to your left. Estimated approach in two minutes.”

“On it.”

Bucky was listening in on the mission, as had become his habit, while perched in the tower’s large living room. He managed to get himself out of the habit of throwing on all his gear every time the group went out, just in case they ever needed him—they didn’t—but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the heavy combat boots behind. At least with them on, he could exit the tower in a hurry, if necessary.

The operation was progressing smoothly, as usual, until Bucky noticed a slight shimmer on the horizon, an anomaly on an otherwise bland backdrop. Without thinking, he nudged the comm in his ear (the one Steve had given him for emergencies). “Steve. On your six. Something’s cloaked. Looks big.”

Bucky had barely gotten the words out before the thing moved, scuttling along the ground and making it difficult to track through his limited scope. “It’s on the move.”

“Thanks Buck. Iron Man, you got a lock on that thing?”

“Sure do, Cap. It’s a nasty piece of work, but I’ll be through with it in a second.”

As Bucky heard the familiar whine of the repulsors charging up, he frowned. Something was off. He knew exactly what that thing would look like, the insectile legs, the way it could scale up buildings or scuttle beneath the debris. He knew the bulk of it, the way the metal limbs felt against flesh. He knew, without a doubt, that the repulsors wouldn’t work. 

But it took him a second too long to find his voice. A second, and everything went downhill.

The repulsor blast went off, embedding itself in the shielding of the mechanical creature, before it turned its sights on Iron Man. The same whining build now came from it, a bright glow forming in the large ‘eye’ on the center of its head. 

“Iron Man!” Bucky managed to yell before the comms became a mess of noise. The screech of metal, a crackle of a disconnected feed, and Steve shouting rapid-fire orders over all of it. Bucky felt numb, but he was on his feet, on his way to his room to pull on his gear and get the hell out there, when he heard Steve’s voice snapping in his ear.

“Buck, stay put. We’re putting out the Hulk. Iron Man and Hawkeye are on their way back. They’ll be going straight to medical.”

“Steve,” Bucky started, feeling his heart thundering in his chest, his emotions skittering out of control.

“Go to him. We’re fine. We’ve got this.” There was something in Steve’s voice, that commanding tone that Bucky wasn’t used to hearing directed at him. Not since before, not since the war. 

It wasn’t helping him with the whole not panicking thing. 

Bucky took the stairs down the fourteen flights to the medical floor. The elevator would take too long. By the time he got there, he felt ready to vibrate out of his skin. Hawkeye stood in the long hallway adjacent to the waiting area, the Iron Man armor standing sentry in the corner. Bucky’s eyes flickered to it for a moment before he turned to Clint. 

“He’s fine. Banged up, but that’s nothing new for Tony.” Even though Clint’s voice had the light edge of teasing that it normally did, there was something else there, something that had Bucky’s heart stuttering in his chest.

Bucky clenched his jaw and nodded, moving to stand beside Clint, his eyes drawn to the small surgery room. The whole room was a flurry of activity, with the exception of Tony’s still form in the middle of it all. He looked pale, ashen. 

“What happened?” Bucky asked, voice coming out in a growl as he fought to speak around the squeezing ache in his chest. 

Clint kept his eyes on the glass as he replied, but Bucky took note of the twitch of his shoulder, an approximation of a shrug. “Blast came right back at him, knocked him out of the sky. He should be okay, he’s seen worse.”

“That doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence, Barton,” Bucky snarled, eyes narrowing at the glass window in front of him. 

Bucky felt Clint’s hand on his shoulder, a reassuring pressure. “He’ll be okay.”

Despite the confidence in Clint’s tone, Bucky didn’t feel a whole lot better.

\-----

It was three hours before Tony was moved from surgery into the recovery rooms. Three hours and a cycle of people Bucky barely said two words to, his mind reeling through the same moments in time over and over again. If he’d said something, if he’d realized sooner what that thing was, what it could do… 

“Buck?” 

Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts and Bucky snapped his head up from where he’d been staring at his folded hands. There was a cup of coffee extended toward him, and Bucky took it, ignoring the slight tremor at the tips of his fingers. “Thanks.”

“Have you seen him yet?” Steve asked as he took the seat to Bucky’s right.

Bucky shook his head. He assumed Steve meant if he’d been into Tony’s room, the private one they’d moved him to after surgery. He wasn’t sure if he could. Wasn’t sure what he would say, what he could say when the mechanic woke up. 

They sat quietly for a while, Steve not commenting on the fact that Bucky just held the warm styrofoam cup between his palms, not drinking it. He didn’t know what to say, what to make of his thoughts.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Steve offered after quite some time had passed, his voice soft and his eyes fixed on the wall opposite them. “Tony’s reckless. He probably would have tried it even if you had told him off.”

“Just like another idiot I know,” Bucky mumbled, offering Steve a weak smile.

Steve returned the smile before standing, gripping Bucky’s shoulder tight. “Talk to him.” As Steve walked out of medical, Bucky knew he was talking about more than just the fight. 

Bucky sipped at the coffee instead, until it was lukewarm and nearly gone, only a half-inch of dark liquid left in the bottom of the cup. He glowered at it for a few moments before before getting up and pitching the whole thing in the nearest garbage can. Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, Bucky started for the door down the hall that he knew led to Tony’s room.

When he pushed open the door, he was surprised to find Tony propped up in bed with an array of pillows around him. His left arm was in a sling strapped to his chest while he was tapping away at a tablet on some sort of stand with his right. Tony glanced up when Bucky entered the room, his eyes widening. He’d obviously been expecting someone else.

“I can… go,” Bucky offered, scrubbed a hand at the back of his neck. He felt awkward, a stupid bubbling of nerves below his chest making him feel like a damn teenager.

“No, no. Don’t be ridiculous. I was just expecting Pepper to swoop in here and inundate me with more paperwork now that I’m immobile for a while.” Tony made a sweeping motion at the chair beside the bed before turning back to the tablet and tapping out a few more lines.

As Bucky sat down, he could see that Tony appeared to be writing some kind of code on the screen. Looked like a bunch of nonsense to him, but he was sure it would wind up as something amazing. “That doesn’t look like paperwork,” Bucky offered, trying for casual but coming up somewhere along the lines of strained.

“Busted,” Tony answered, grinning as he finished up another line before closing down the screen. “What can I do for you, Terminator?” 

Bucky stared down at his hands, clenched tight against his knees, so he had something to focus on other than Tony’s face as he spoke. “You… what were you thinking?”

“Well, I was thinking I could blast that stupid thing into next week. I miscalculated. It happens.” Bucky could practically hear Tony’s incredulous expression in the tone of his voice. 

When Bucky didn’t respond, Tony took that as his cue to keep talking. “Look, it’s not a big deal. Sometimes things get a bit hazy out there, but if you hadn’t given us the heads up when you did, we might not have switched tactics in the first place and–”

“You could have _died_ , Tony!” Bucky shouted, startling himself with the volume. It wasn’t until he took in Tony’s bewildered expression that he realized he’d raised his head as he spoke. He felt his resolve wavering, but he steeled it. “If you die…” Bucky trailed off, the words cutting him like a particularly sharp blade on their way past his lips. 

“If I die, no one will be your backup. I get it. Don’t worry, Tin Man, I’m not going anywhere.” Tony was joking, had to be joking, but Bucky could see the seriousness in his face. He really thought this was only about the damn book, about the fucking words.

About being a way to keep Bucky from going off the rails.

If Bucky stopped lying to himself, Tony was his anchor, but not in the way that the mechanic was assuming. 

Before he could stop himself, Bucky let out a snort and then a peel of laughter. He buried his face in his hands, letting the curtain of hair cover him. Bucky knew Tony was staring at him, probably very confused, but he took a long while collecting himself. 

“You idiot,” Bucky murmured, voice fond and exasperated as he lifted his head and caught Tony’s—yes, very confused and somewhat concerned—gaze. “I care if you die because I care about _you_ , not about the stupid backup plan.”

That seemed to catch Tony off guard. For a while, he just stared at Bucky as though he was part of a particularly lucid fever dream. Then he snapped out of it, shaking his head and fixing Bucky with one of those lewd, Stark-classic smirks. “Oh? Like me as a teammate or… something more?”

If Tony thought that was all it would take to throw Bucky off his game, he’d underestimated Bucky’s ability to play this particular tune. He returned Tony’s smirk with one of his own, lowering his lashes and glancing up through them in a way he knew was—or at least, used to be—particularly alluring. “Somethin’ more, I think.” 

“You think?” Tony looked confused all over again.

Bucky’s grin slipped off his face and he lowered his gaze before working up the courage to gently take hold of Tony’s free hand. Tony didn’t pull away, so that was a good sign.

“I think,” Bucky answered, taking a moment and a deep breath to steel himself. “I think I’m gonna need to take things slow. And I know that’s not your usual speed, but I still don’t…” _trust myself_.

Tony’s fingers wrapped around Bucky’s, giving them a gentle squeeze. When Bucky worked up the courage to catch Tony’s gaze again, the soft, gentle smile pulling at the corners of Tony’s mouth nearly took his breath away.

“I’d like that. Taking it slow. With you,” Tony clarified, stumbling over his words in an effort not to get ahead of himself.

Bucky found himself smiling back, something small and fragile, but it gave life to the flutter of wings in his chest. “Swell,” he huffed on an exhale, bringing their joined hands to his lips so he could press a kiss to the back of Tony’s knuckles. “Now, could you please not go barrelling into danger like a moron?”

Tony’s answering grin was blinding. “No promises, Buck-a-roo. Part of the job description.”


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t always work smoothly, this thing between them. 

On some days, Tony’s work habits and general disregard for his own safety drove Bucky up the wall. On others, Bucky’s suspicious nature and his need to plan each event down to the smallest detail made Tony feel like pulling out his hair. But they worked it out, through words and soft touches to reassure each other, to make sure they were all right.

After a few weeks, Bucky worked up the courage to ask what had happened, before the cabin, while he was still the Winter Soldier. Tony had been reluctant to come forward with the information, but Bucky knew if he just kept prodding, he would work it from him eventually.

It wasn’t a nice story. 

Hydra had gotten him back for three weeks—three whole weeks of Bucky doing god-knows-what under their control—before the Avengers decided to take action. Steve wanted to go, of course he had, but it would have been obvious that they were on to Hydra’s actions if Steve suddenly took off. Iron Man, on the other hand, would hardly be noticed, what with his usual global missions or trips to any one of SI’s numerous off-shoots. 

Tony’d admitted to Bucky, in the dark cover of night as they were both burrowed beneath the thick quilt on Bucky’s bed, that he’d been worried. He’d wanted to go out immediately, but Steve wasn’t so sure Bucky hadn’t just taken to the wind again. Bucky wanted to protest, to say he wouldn’t have done that, but back then he just might have. He didn’t have the same ties to the group as he does now.

He didn’t have Tony.

And god, after the hell he’d put Tony through, he was amazed the man wanted anything to do with him. Not only had he caused the injury that had damn near killed Tony in the middle of ass-end nowhere, he’d also done a number on the suit.

“I sent it back to the tower,” Tony muttered, scrubbed a hand over his beard. “After I managed to get you to the cabin, it wasn’t going to do us any good. I thought it had enough coherence to get a message to the team. Apparently, it got bashed up a little too badly to manage much more than the GPS guidance back home.”

Bucky had sulked for about a week after that, the harsh chant of _your fault, your fault_ echoing at the back of his mind. It had taken both Tony and Steve forcibly hauling him out to the little bodega in Queens he liked so much—the one with the burn-your-face-off salsa and the best damn tacos in town—to break him out of his funk.

So it was work, this thing between them. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t a hardship, not by a long shot.

“Hey, Buck! Last chance to chip in for movie opinions,” Steve called from the kitchen, where the rest of the team was still dishing up.

“C’mon, I don’t want to wind up watching The Notebook again,” Clint wailed, his opinions on the movie coming forth every time they’d sat down to watch it. Like he didn’t pretend not to cry as much as the rest of them.

“Then you should pitch something better than The Room,” Natasha said blithely.

“It’s a classic.”

“It’s a damn cinematic abomination, is what it is,” Steve quipped, low enough that most wouldn’t have heard him.

“Language, Steve,” Bucky hollered back from the couch, smiling as Tony shifted to make himself more comfortable. If he wound up with his feet pressed beneath Bucky’s thigh, well, Bucky wasn’t likely to complain.

“Yeah, Steve,” Tony shouted as he shoveled a scoop of Bruce’s curry into his mouth.

Steve rolled his eyes as he re-entered the living room. “I shoulda never let you two get together. Now every day is gang-up-on-Steve day,” he teased, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder as he walked past to his usual armchair. 

“‘Bout damn time someone else calls you on your bullshit,” Bucky answered around a cheeky grin.

“Same to you, Buck,” Steve shot back, nodding at Tony, who was too preoccupied with an over-the-couch conversation with Bruce. Something about photons.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky whispered, settling as the rest of the team took their usual spots. Soon the room was filled with raucous conversation over the movie’s track, debates and theories bounding back and forth. Bucky tuned it all out, focusing on the heat of Tony’s feet under his thigh and the coil of warmth in his chest. He wrapped his right hand gently around Tony’s ankle, brushing his thumb against the skin, pulled taut over bone. He caught the uptick at the corner of Tony’s mouth, wanted to kiss it off and put it back all over again.

Maybe later, in the quiet of their room, when the halls were still and the tower silent. For now, Bucky basked in the feel of safety that he’d been given, the second and third and fourth chances he didn’t think he deserved.

But he’d make it work.


End file.
